Tempted to Death
by Helen West
Summary: An outlaw days story not connected to my other stories. A wounded man is faced with a hard choice. His friends have choices to make, too. And so do his enemies.


This was originally posted elsewhere in response to the challenge, Tempted. It is set in the outlaw days and not directly connected to my other stories.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

"Do ya' think he's gonna die?"

The nearby voice woke a man who had been deeply asleep.

"Don't talk like that! It's bad luck," said another voice.

The newly woken man lay with his eyes still closed, trying to figure out what was going on. The first thing he knew was that the left side of his chest was a mass of pain that made each breath agonizing. And he was too weak to even feel around with his hand to find out what hurt so much. He fought to keep breathing. He felt completely exhausted. Each breath was a torment, long and rattling. One, two, three, four, he counted the struggling breaths and then lost track in the sheer labor of living. Nothing had ever seemed so hard. Why should he keep up this awful fight? It was a terrible temptation just to stop trying, to let go, to let this torture end. He couldn't remember why it was important to live.

Instead, he tried to listen to the quiet voices he heard nearby, to hold onto those presences in the dark.

"Well, all I know is, I never seen a man shot that bad come through it alive."

So that was what was hurting so much. A bullet wound. Yes, the wound had the all-too-familiar burning pain. Or wounds. Now that he paid attention to it, he could tell that there were two wounds in his chest.

"He's tough. He'll live. He's got to."

"Now who's makin' bad luck? I don't want him to die, neither. We none of us do."

There was the soft sound of cards being dealt and the crackle of a fire. But the fire seemed to throw no heat. The wounded man felt horribly cold, but at least glad that someone seemed to care. Or they did care if the man they worried would die was the same man they were sitting next to playing cards.

"He never told us the other half of that plan to get us $50,000. We did all he wanted on the first part getting us here to this house. But how to get the money he talked about, nobody knows but him."

"Yeah, he ain't told nobody in the gang. He's got to live or we'll never find out."

So, that was why these men cared about the wounded man lying so still near them. Money. That was all. Maybe he shouldn't bother to live, after all. He drew another long, terrible breath.

The cards riffled again.

"Unless he told the Kid."

"If he did, the Kid ain't said nothing about it. And we been here two days, waiting for Heyes to wake up."

There was a pause. The unstated end of the sentence was surely "or die."

"But Heyes and the Kid tell each other everything, don't they? I don't know 'em like you do."

Heyes. So that was his name. Of course it was. In the fog of pain and the fight of continuing to breathe, he had almost forgotten.

"Yeah, they're like that. I been with the Devil's Hole three years, almost. They fight, but they talk."

There was the sound of cards moving again, but the voices stopped. Heyes drifted, almost asleep again. He was so thirsty, but it was much too much trouble to open his eyes and try to open his cracked lips to ask for a drink. It was so tempting to just not bother.

There was the click of a lock opening and the creak of a door swinging on neglected hinges. The sound of the cards stopped suddenly. Heyes was awake again, but he kept his eyes closed. It seemed the safest thing. If he opened his eyes, they might make him do something. He wasn't up to doing anything. Maybe not even breathing. But still, he listened.

Heyes heard footsteps coming toward him across a wooden floor. A very familiar tenor voice asked, "Well, Doc, how is he?" It was the Kid. He sounded worried.

"Give me a minute to look him over, Mr. Curry," said an unfamiliar baritone voice. Someone pulled back the blanket and Heyes began to shiver. He was so cold.

The doctor said, "Well, he's alive. That's more that I felt sure of yesterday."

"Yeah." Curry tried to sound casual, but Heyes recognized the uncertainty in his partner's voice.

A gentle hand felt along the wounded man's ribs.

A tiny gasp escaped from Heyes' lips.

The doctor continued, "And he's conscious, at least enough to hurt when I got too close to his wounds. But he's terribly weak. We have to get him awake enough to get some liquid and nourishment into him, or he won't make it much longer. It won't be easy. He's lost a lot of blood."

"I know. He bled all over me."

"And me, when I dug those slugs out of him. The good thing is, I don't feel any excess warmth. No infection, thus far. If you can keep the wounds clean and dressed like I showed you, he'll have a chance."

"But right now, we have to wake him up enough to get something down him. You talk to him. He knows your voice, Mr. Curry."

"He ought to," said the Kid. "Heyes! Heyes! Wake up, partner!"

Heyes was so tempted to ignore the insistent, familiar voice. So tempted. But he concentrated as hard as he could and managed to open his eyes. The world looked blurry. The wounded outlaw blinked. His eyes felt dry and grainy.

"Hey there, partner! How are you?" the Kid spoke with a forced cheerfulness that didn't fool Heyes.

The portly doctor leaning over Heyes put up his hand. "No, don't try to speak, Mr. Heyes. Save your strength. You must try to drink something." He reached for a mug. As he turned back to his patience, he saw fear in his eyes. "Don't worry. I'm Doctor Bates, Mark Bates' uncle. Mark is that young man who joined your gang recently. I may not like having my nephew be a thief, but I won't turn you in." The uneasiness retreated from Heyes' distressed brown eyes.

Heyes fought to keep his eyes opened and to keep breathing. He didn't know if he could drink anything, but he was fiercely thirsty. As a mug approached his face, he opened his lips. The doctor spooned cool water into Heyes' mouth. It tasted good. It was hard to swallow while he was lying down. Heyes coughed. The cough hurt more than he could believe.

The wounded outlaw didn't remember passing out or falling asleep. But he must have, since he was waking up again. It was darker than it had been. It must be night, or nearly.

"Heyes," came the gentle voice of the drunken thief they called the Preacher because he was always railing about the commandments when he wasn't breaking them, or even when he was. "You want some broth? We got some nice and hot for you."

The wounded man nodded as well as he could. He had to be stronger. He couldn't have nodded when he had been awake before.

The Preacher spooned a little broth into Heyes' mouth, cautiously. It was warm, delicious beef broth. The wounded man swallowed more easily, now. He smiled his thanks. He swallowed all he could, first of broth and then of cool water.

The healing man opened his eyes. Again, he had slept without knowing it. Sunlight was streaming into the unfamiliar room through coarse curtains. The stove seemed to be giving more heat. He saw his partner sitting on a chair by the bed, smiling at him. "Heyes, how are you?"

"Hurts," whispered the wounded man hoarsely. "Hungry."

The Kid smiled, cheered that his partner was now strong enough to speak. "Well, I ain't surprised it hurts. You took two pistol shots in the back from the Duvall Gang. We drove 'em off, don't worry. They didn't follow us up to this house, we think. You was hit so bad, and when your lung went all flat, we thought we'd lost you for sure. But Bates' uncle the doc dug out the lead and patched you up."

"Doc?" asked Heyes cautiously.

The Kid said, "He had to leave, he does have other folks to help. But he showed us how to nurse you. I guess it's good you're hungry. I got some soup for you. You want me to help you sit up a bit so you can eat it better?"

"Careful," gasped Heyes. His partner did his best to be careful as he helped his weak partner to sit up, but the wounded man hissed in pain and nearly passed out. The Kid plumped up a couple of pillows to support him. When his partner had recovered a bit from the exertion, Curry spooned some soup into him. He couldn't take much before he fell asleep.

Suddenly, Heyes' eyes opened again. It was getting dark. He could hear an argument going on in the next room.

"I don't give a damn if the Duvall Gang is coming, I ain't leaving Heyes!" said the Kid's voice loudly enough for Heyes to follow every word. "We can hole up here and shoot it out. I can outshoot any of those boys with my left hand before breakfast and twice on Sundays!"

"I like Heyes as much as any man, Kid. But think straight. You're leading this bunch now. You got to watch over your flock – all of 'em. There's ten of the Duvall boys and four of us, not counting Heyes, now that Gonzalez is dead. How long can we hold out? How many of us might get shot?" the Preacher argued. There was a taught silence.

The exchanges after that were too quiet for Heyes to follow. He dropped off to sleep again.

But he didn't sleep long.

"Heyes," said the Kid in a soft, strained voice. The wounded outlaw opened his eyes in the dark.

"Yeah," said Heyes. He coughed and almost lost consciousness. The pain seemed worse than ever.

The Kid repeated, "Heyes." He sounded agonized. "Heyes, the Duvall boys are riding this way. They found the house. They got a lot of men. A lot more than us. They know who we are. For $15,000 in reward money, they'll fight damn hard. Heyes . . ."

"Go! Get the men away safe!" Heyes choked out.

"Heyes, we don't got a wagon to carry you out of here."

"I know. What does it matter who buries me?" Heyes voice was very low, but hard. So this was it. He had come to hope that he might live. That hope was gone.

"Heyes, I wanted awful bad to stay and shoot it out for you . . ." The Kid couldn't finish the awful sentence.

"I know."

"Heyes. I . . ." The Kid took his partner's hand.

"I know. Good-bye, partner."

"Good-bye." Heyes couldn't see his partner, but he heard the hard catch in his voice. The Kid shook Heyes' hand, though his wounded partner had no grip at all.

The door closed. There was soft talk that Heyes couldn't hear. But a bit later, he could have sworn that he heard his partner's voice from the next room saying, "I can't do it. I'll get the men out safe, then I'll be back for you, Heyes. I'll be back! I swear it!" The wounded man had to be imagining that soft voice in the dark. He was too sleepy. He had to be dreaming. There was no way the Kid could come back for him, Heyes knew that. It was a fantasy. But it was such a temptation to believe it. He didn't want to think his cousin could ever abandon him to die.

It wasn't much later that Heyes heard the horses riding away. He was alone.

Now, it really was time to give up, to stop fighting. If he lived, it would just mean the Duvall boys would hurt him worse. They would shoot him again. This time, there would be no recovery. There really was no use to try to keep breathing, with that awful pain that struck him with each breath. If only there was another way, but Heyes was too weary and in too much pain to think. It was so hard. He just wanted to give up. Could there possibly be another way? Might the Kid really sneak back?

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Heyes woke suddenly, but kept his eyes closed. Someone was outside the door. Heyes made what preparations he could for greeting hostile company. Then the stranger had opened the door into the room where the wounded outlaw lay in bed. He heard the sound of a match being lit and smelled the kerosene of a lamp.

A voice he didn't know said softly, "They left somebody. Must be hurt too bad to ride."

Two sets of footsteps crept closer. The floor creaked. "Oh my God! It's Heyes. They left Hannibal Heyes! Look at that dimple. Why would they do that? Their leader."

"You know Horter shot him. Shot him bad. He'd dead, Pat. Heyes is dead."

"Are you sure?"

"He's white as a sheet, he ain't breathing. His arms are crossed over his chest like they do with a man in his coffin. That ain't a live man, that's a corpse."

There was silence for a moment.

"You think his ghost is around here someplace?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Don't you?"

The footsteps hurried back across the floor the other way. The lamp was blown out and the door slammed.

Heyes let out the breath he had been holding. He didn't know why he had done this bit of play acting. Maybe it would buy him an hour. An hour more of this agony. Or maybe less. But somehow, he had to try.

Sometime later, in the dark, Heyes heard more footsteps and the door to his room opened again. Again, the lamp was lit.

A hard voice Heyes hadn't heard before said, "So, there he is. Hannibal Heyes. Dead as a doornail. All we got to do is set up some kind of go between and turn in the body to get $7,500. The best deed he's probably ever done, getting us that money."

"Don't say that! He looks like he's nice. Or he was." The voice was a woman's. Heyes heard her soft steps approaching. "Poor man!" Heyes felt her fingers brush back a lock of sweaty hair off his brow. He held his breath for dear life. The gentle hand pulled back swiftly. "Gracious! He's still warm!"

"Well, I guess he ain't been gone long. And somebody left a fire going in that stove." There was the sound of the stove door opening. "It's dying down. We need to keep it cold in here until we can line up somebody to come get him off to the law. We don't want him to spoil."

"Don't be disgusting, Dan," exclaimed the woman.

"Just being practical, honey." Heyes heard the sound of a kiss.

"Dan! Don't be scandalous!"

"Come on, where else in this little house stuffed full of outlaws can we get the privacy to do some smooching?"

"There's a dead man here!

"So, he can't watch and he can't tell. Come on, Trixie, honey. I can put him in that arm chair and we can have the bed."

"No!" the woman was horrified. "I don't want you to touch him and I refuse to lie in the bed where he's been. Don't you dare disturb the poor man's body!"

"Oh. Well, he's gonna be disturbed when the law comes for him. But until then, I guess he can lie there in peace. We can have the chair. Hm." Heyes heard the man blow out the lamp.

At first Trixie sounded restrained, but then she seemed to forget the dead man lying so near as her man wooed her. Heyes finally dared to breathe shallowly while the couple cuddling in the chair was breathing so much harder than he was. But he wasn't exactly relaxed. He was facing more than one possibility of painful death.

"Ouch!" cried Dan.

"What is it?" asked his girl.

"That pin of yours stuck me. I'll take it off."

Heyes heard the man cross the room and put the pin on the table by the bed. Then he was back to his girl. "No, Dan. Not here. I just can't take off my clothes with Hannibal lying over there, all white and still."

"Close your eyes, then."

"No. I can't do it."

"Alright, alright," Dan gave in. The couple left and the door shut. But they forget to retrieve the pin from the table.

Sunlight blazed through the curtains and woke Heyes. He yawned. The pain in his side seemed a little less, but he was horribly hungry and thirsty. Would he die before the Duvalls discovered he was alive and shot him? He opened his eyes and looked around. He noticed lying on the bedside table a gold pin with a green stone set into it. It sparkled in the morning light. He wondered how much it was worth. Hundreds, at least, he guessed. They had forgotten it, Dan and Trixie. Maybe they wouldn't miss it.

Or maybe they would. Heyes heard the door lock rattle. He quickly resumed his pose of death.

A high, young voice said, "Golly! There he is! Hannibal Heyes hisself."

"What did I tell you?"

"So Kid Curry really rode off and left him?"

"With us guys on his tail, he sure did. Where are you going, Henry? Do you really want to get that close to a dead man?" Heyes heard footsteps approaching and what sounded like a pocket knife opening.

"I want a souvenir."

Heyes' had to struggle as hard as he ever had in his life not to move or breathe.

"You do?"

"Sure. He won't miss it." Heyes' heart pounded. It seemed impossible not to breathe.

"Don't touch him!" a third voice said. Heyes thought it sounded like Dan's. "We don't want to mess up the bounty on him."

"He won't miss a little finger."

"Leave him be, Henry."

The footsteps retreated. The door slammed.

Heyes let out his breath. Possums had his sympathy. This playing dead thing was a lot harder than it looked.

Now, the hours went by with dreadful slowness. Heyes could hear voices in other parts of the house. The light crept across the wall. He grew hungrier and hungrier; thirstier and thirstier. He passed out and woke again, even more ravenous. He drifted in and out of sleep, feeling weaker by the hour. He dropped off and then the afternoon light woke him, or a voice outside the door did. Was that his mother's voice? No, he had been dreaming. Heyes was still alone. And there was no food, no drink, no company.

The Kid would come back. He would, surely. Unless that final promise had been a hallucination or a dream. Now the wounded man was far from sure. Enduring this time in silence was terrible. He needed help. He was dying. He could feel his strength ebbing. With no food or drink, his will was running low. He could call for help. Surely even the hardened outlaws in the house would help him. A fellow human being needed help – how could they turn him down? But they were the ones who had shot him.

The shadows grew darker. And it grew colder and colder in the bedroom. Heyes began to shiver harder and harder. If someone came in now, he could not possibly carry off the illusion of being dead. He couldn't stop shaking. He was terrified, but still silent. He passed out again.

He woke. He felt so weak, he could hardly keep up the struggle of breathing. It was so hard. He was dying. Why not just let it happen? But he fought on. The Kid would come, eventually. He had to.

A sharp sound woke Heyes. Someone was in the room. He opened his eyes, but it was too dark to see anything. He heard a match struck.

"Heyes?" The voice was the Kid's. He had come at last, climbing in the window. There was no mistaking the gust of cold air blowing in the opening, with a swirl of snowflakes.

Heyes tried to reply, but he was too weak and his lips and throat were too parched. He felt a little water trickle in his mouth. It was like the breath of life returning, but oh so little of it coming so slowly. They could take no chances on Heyes' coughing.

"Thanks!" he croaked.

"I'm taking you away," said the Kid as he pulled back the covers and began to shift Heyes to make it easier to lift him.

"No. Dying."

The Kid murmured softly, then grunted as he strained to take his partner in his arms. "I ain't giving up. You're comin' with us. Yeah, all the boys are out there in the trees. Even brought some more friends. Have the Duvalls been givin' you any food?"

"No. They think I'm dead."

Heyes smiled in the dark. Maybe it was just for money, but the boys wanted him alive. If they wanted it, he would keep trying, too.

The Kid staggered toward the window, struggling to balance his partner's weight. A pair of strong arms reached in the window and a larger man cradled the wounded man, who devoted himself to not weeping or moaning with the agony of being moved.

There was a sound outside the bedroom door. The Kid vaulted through the window. The door flew opened and bullets flew toward the open window. The Kid fired back, then turned and ran.

Heyes wasn't sure what happened after that. He knew that his wounds were bleeding badly. He knew that he was jounced around over a saddle, padded by blankets but still very uncomfortable. He knew that he was carried a long way. He knew that he passed out. No one could have slept.

Heyes was aware again. He heard voices and felt the unmistakable sensation of a train in motion. He heard the whistle blow. "Put that blanket over him, Preacher, while I build up the fire in the stove."

"Kid, he's dead. He's got to be. Nobody could live through that trip from the house in the woods to where your lady friend got us on this train."

"He's alive, I tell you," Curry insisted.

"He's cold as a frog. I touched him."

"Sure he's cold. We carried him miles through the snow. But now he's on this warm train car and he'll be fine."

"Kid, he's got to be dead," the Preacher sounded very sad, but convinced.

"When I was carrying him in here, I could feel his blood flowin', Preacher."

"You're just givin' in to wantin' him to live, Kid."

Heyes moaned.

"You really are alive!" crowed the Kid. He helped his partner to a little water from his canteen.

Heyes coughed, but then he whispered, "You came back for me. I couldn't die on you. Much as I wanted to."

Curry and the Preacher laughed joyously. The Kid gave Heyes some more water.

"What's that cooking?" asked Heyes hoarsely. They could hear his stomach growl.

"You're smelling the steak cooking over in the dining car. You can't have none. You ain't well enough," scolded the Preacher protectively.

"I never been so hungry. It's been days since I ate. It smells awful tempting," whispered Heyes.

The Kid laughed again and the Preacher laughed with him. They began to think that Hannibal Heyes might just live.


End file.
